Scenes That Should Not Be
by SinisterExaggerator
Summary: A collection of some of my "Scenes That Should Not Be" from the PPMB. And trust me, they shouldn't.
1. Busted?

**Busted?**

As Daria and Tom exited the pharmacy card section, they looked down to notice a magazine strewn upon the floor. As they perused the pictures inside, the subject matter soon became clear. This had been a point of conflict for her before, no doubt. Even though it was no longer in her mind, she still had another person to fit in the equation. But as they took it in, all that remained was silence (well, that and the shopkeeper guarding against petty larceny). After a good minute of tension, Daria decided to break the silence.  
"So, Tom...like what you see?"  
His masculine instincts caused him to back away slightly. How would he put this delicately?  
With a chuckle, he said, "Well...overall, yes. Personally, I don't have any reservations about any particular shape. Although I sort of like yours myself. I don't mind the size, and their roundness is sort of appealing." He took the blushing as a sign that he wasn't about to be humiliated in front of an audience of one, and continued. "But if I had to put it down to bare aesthetics, I'd choose...," and here he pointed to a humbly set rack near the top of the page, "this. They're horizontal in look, maybe a bit flat. They aren't too large for the purposes of intimacy, though." His mind jarred for a moment. "You're not...interested in these, are you?"  
"Of course not," she replied. "What do you think I am?"  
"Do you really want to hear the answer to that right now?"  
"If psychological scarring is imminent, get it over with." Her eyes traveled back down to the magazine in their hands. "I never imagined that designer glasses could be so thought-provoking between us."


	2. Boxing Match

**Boxing Match**

The darkness enveloping Daria raised a few questions in her awakening mind. For what it was worth, there were two possibilities: one, something absolutely remarkable was happening, or two, she was approaching the land of the dead. The more succinct option came first in priority.  
She tried moving her arms. With a thud, she hit...something. _If some cosmic entity is playing games with me,_ she thought, _he has my sense of humor. But if Dante is to be trusted, they're not tricksters as much as they are incinerators._  
So she was alive. Yippee kayo kayay. But there was still the issue of the space. She was within some finite place, and she had no idea if she was going towards a conveniently placed refugee camp or some creep's windowless white van.  
Suddenly, a ray of light poked through. From what she could grouse from staring up, it emerged through two planks of wood. For once, boxes were not therapeutic. Just as she sighed intrepidly toward her fate, an object on the floor caught her eye. Strangely, it looked like it belonged to, no, _on_ somebody. That's when she realized it did: it was an ear.  
Now she was at another crossroads: either someone else was in whatever box she was in, or someone was going _Blue Velvet_ on her. She tapped the ear, and, after a second, it stirred. A familiar voice mumbled beyond discernibility. A knocking arose, and with some more light, spoke out.  
"Hey, Dari- what the hell?"  
"My words exactly, Trent. What was the last thing you remember?"  
"I don't know. I think I sorta blacked out until a moment ago."  
"Just promise me that if we find someone homicidal, that you'll help me dispatch them?"  
"Whatever." The container suddenly stopped moving, and the two of them both whiplashed slightly with the master choreography.  
A few minutes passed. There was a bit of turbulence, but it wasn't nearly as discomforting as before. A flash of light appeared, and when they had gotten over their collective blindness, the shape of a web server and a computer, on the PPMB, came into view. It took a second for the mistake to click.  
"Trent," Daria frustratedly called out, "_someone_ has the concept of 'shipping' very, very wrong."


	3. User-Unfriendly

**User-Unfriendly**

As Daria passed by Quinn's room, something struck her as...odd. The normal study in regurgitated pink was replaced by a dim light emanating from the darkness. One focus of the eyes later, she discovered the source. Quinn sat at her computer, all but engrossed by whatever she was looking at.  
"Let me guess," Daria spoke up. "Is something asking if it 'can haz cheezburger'?"  
"No," Quinn replied, "why would associate with someone like-oh. Remember how you were talking about the meaning of the word 'meta'? Well, I found this site that talks about _us_. Looks like it says 'PPMB'. I even have, like, an account there!"  
"As long as you don't say anything about my IRA connections, you'll be fine."  
"What? Hey! This guy just posted something about a mass fandom conspiracy against him! Or her. Looks like he has a few identities." With a laugh, she set upon typing, the _clicks!_ and _clacks!_ of the keyboard resonating throughout the room. A look of horror fell upon Daria's eyes.  
"Wait, Quinn, you don't want to do-"  
"And...enter!"  
"-that." Quinn rested back in her chair, smiling upon the "ownage" she had just dealt. It quickly faded as a deformed, clawed hand reached out from the computer screen, her satisfied smirk annihilated from her face as the glass shattered and it clenched around her neck, dragging her into the abyss that lay behind the now broken lights. Daria looked on, utterly powerless, yet somehow transfixed to the sight, or rather, the lack thereof.

As she reached for the phone, 911 on the line, her mind was filled with only one thought.

_Poor Quinn. If only she had known _not_ to feed the trolls._


	4. Something from Nothing

**Something from Nothing**

Amelia stared over the rims of her glasses towards the person sitting in the middle of the isolated forest shack. The light of the moon only just peeked through the boards of the wooden walls.  
"You have no idea how long I've been waiting to share these moments with you, Daria," she said, a weak smile entering her expression. "Without you, I was just another idiot girl gallivanting all over the countryside. But I'm not. Now that I have you."  
Her answer came in silence. Strange. Daria hadn't been talking _much_ lately. Unfazed, Amelia continued.  
"I could have been just like the others at that camp. What did you call them? Red Army recruits?" Amelia snickered. "'You would have thought that the brochure would have come with a nifty red book,'" she uttered in a fleeting monotone. "But now, I'm something else, someone else. All because of you. Right, Daria?"  
The howl of the wind was her reply.  
"RIGHT, DARIA?!" A thought struck her, and her tightened cheeks loosened with glee.

She reached to the back of Daria's parietal bone and prodded it up and down, moving it and the rest of her skull in a nodding motion. Amelia assumed the monotone from before, now limited to the corner of her mouth. "'Yes, Amelia. You're _nothing_ without me.'"  
"Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!" she replied to herself, a tear falling from her eye. She moved toward Daria and wrapped her arms around her in a warm embrace.

And nowhere was she closer to Daria than in that one moment, tightly hugging her ribcage, and her spinal cord. Yes, she would be nothing without her. Even if _she_ were nothing.


	5. Through the Fire and Flames

**Through the Fire and Flames**

The heavily distorted guitar chords faded in cacophonic vigor, as the houses nearby finally came to a rest on their foundations. While the vast majority of Lawndalians cooled back down, the members of Mystik Spiral stirred from their conscious sleep, seeing the puff of smoke in the center of the room as somewhat odd. Considering that none of them had brought splints that day.  
A humanoid figure emerged from the cloud, his body a flaming vermillion, and literally so. Between two horn-like appendages on his head, his mouth curved into a devious sneer and his eyes radiated a pyromaniacal lust for death. Surprisingly, he did not lunge at them, but stood statuesquely in his spot with an unholy grace.  
"_Well, men_," he started, casually removing cotton balls from his ears, "that was terrible. And this is coming from someone who forces his guests to listen to 'Baby' on an infinite loop." His voice, while inhumanly deep, retained a crisp tinge of humor in its malice. "Let me introduce myself. I am Satan. I suppose it seems pretty obvious what I'm going to do next."  
"But we already have washboard abs," Trent spoke up.  
The light faded from Satan's eyes as he met Trent's face with a forboding glare (but not before doing a double take down towards his abdomen). "_**NO**__._ You see, as a cosmic entity, I have infinite powers." His gaze moved back to the entire group. "One of them is being able to make you all sound less like crap."  
Trent was piqued by the jab. "Now wait here, we don't sound like..." Nick tapped his shoulder.  
"Does 'infinite powers' mean nothing to you?!"  
"I do need a snazzy new gong," Max called from his drum set.  
"See what I mean?" Satan replied. "I could do all that and _more_. All I need is your signatures right here." A contract appeared in his hand.  
"What?" Jesse uttered.  
"Jesse's got a good point," Trent said. "How do we know you're not just lying to us?"  
"A very good question indeed," he responded. "Remember that song 'Baby' from earlier? Bieber put all of his evangelical mumbo-jumbo on me instead of signing it when I came."  
The quartet looked at each other, wondering which one was the closest to entering law school. With four scratches of the pen (to make it quick, it was filled with someone else's blood), the deal was done.  
"See you, suckers," Satan snarled as he vanished into the air.  
"But I thought we didn't suck anymore," Trent observed, bemusedly playing "Bad Horsie".  
"It must be his signature sign-off or something," Max said, spontaneously drumming "The Black Page".  
"Yeah," Jesse replied, sounding the theme from Paganini's 24th Caprice.  
"Anyway," Nick shouted, stopping his rendition of "Anesthesia (Pulling Teeth)", "let's just embrace the moment."  
And so they rocked into musical history.

_One Year Later_

"I _told_ you that was a one-way street," Nick growled at Max. "And even then, how could you not see a steamroller coming in our general direction?"  
"You try and drive with someone screaming in your ear!" he replied.  
Trent shushed them. "Quiet, guys. I hear something." He looked to see the large red cavern around them. "Where _are_ we?" From the distance, emanating from the endless maws between the stalagmites and the stalactites, they could just make out the words 'always be mine'."  
A familiar voice called to them from behind. "Why, nice seeing you again, gentlemen." Satan laughed from his lectern as he wrote their names in a register. "Welcome to hell." In a second's time, four of his demonic henchmen came and manhandled each of the members, dragging them by the scruffs of their necks to their eternal damnation. "Reservations come in first, you know. Hope you don't mind."  
"Huh," Jesse said.  
"Well, at least I have the chance to give Hitler a piece of my mind," Nick sighed.  
"I wonder if Robert Johnson made it down here," Trent thought aloud.  
Nick wept profusely as his captors led him to the cauldron. "That gong was tuned to A-flat. How am I going to play a song in D major with a gong in A-FLAT?!"  
Satan shook his head and facepalmed. Sometimes, even being the devil was quite a labor.


	6. Going Buckwild

**Going Buckwild**

The setting sun smiled as the roar from the pickup truck filled the forest. The splashes of mud on the wheels of the Ford pickup completed the serene scene, as a flat yodel echoed into the purple dusk.

"We gonna have ourselves a ball too-night!" Daria shouted from the driver's seat. She straightened out her Daisy Dukes, pulled her pigtails taut, and gripped the wheel with flying vigor. This was going to be one _hell_ of a night. Local game fled, recognizing both the hum of the motor and the trademark stars and bars on the mudflap. The gunshots didn't give any hint of subtlety either. "You bag any?" she asked Jane, who was sitting shotgun both figuratively and literally.

"Naw, them critters always git 'way too fast b'fer I can blow them 'way."

"Or is it that them bullets ain't comin' out fast enough." She placed her hand firmly on the shaft of the gun. "Gimme that. You jus' switch places here wiff me." They crawled into each other's seats, as shots rang out. A rabbit fell dead off in the distance, downed by a rogue bullet. "One gon'," she cried with relish. "Remin' me to get the stir-fry up."

"Will do," she replied.

A smirk filled Daria's face. Just a few more kills and they'd be eating good for the week, if she kept her accuracy up, the month. This was much more fun than the bug zapper. She took another look at the ruddy, muddy trail at their backs. _Much_ more fun.


	7. Jagged Little Pill

**Jagged Little Pill**

Jake scrolled down his inbox. _Funny how some new-fangled system comes out with all the junk from the last one, times twenty,_ he thought. _And I don't even have a paper shredder to watch it get slashed into oblivion!_ He straightened himself up, cracked his knuckles, and grabbed furiously at the mouse, carpal tunnel be damned.

Very important citizen needs money transferred to Azerbaijani bank account. CLICK.

I will decapitate you and cut up your body if you don't pass on this letter! CLICK.

Man interested in adult liaison. CLICK and REPORT.

New Swedish pill, guaranteed to improve love life! CLI-"Well..."

Jake ran around the house like a cokehead chugging Go-Go Juice, his heart pounding wildly. He did double takes in all directions, even ones that he never thought possible. The uncontrollable urge inside him was too strong to be satisfied, yet too restricting as to allow him to proceed to the second floor. Something, **anything** would do. Then he spied the living room couch.

Quinn felt the tremors beneath her on the staircase. "Is it me or is something wrong with this room?"

Daria looked back at her, then closed her eyes. "Not anymore." A few more steps later, she wished she had kept them that way.

"JAKE!" screamed Helen to the kneeling, bottomless figure besides the furniture, "what do you think you're doing?!"

He reciprocated the stare in pure embarrassment, then hurriedly pulled up his trousers, as his two daughters raced each other for the shower.

"Uh, that's why they call it the 'love seat', right?"


	8. We All Scream

**We All Scream**

"Kevin, there is no way this can possibly work out in our favor."  
"C'mon, Mack Daddy! You said that if we wanted to edge out the competition, we had to be individidual or something like that."  
"You do realize the only thing preventing me from decking you is my concern for our well-being."  
"So? Let's get out there and _sell some ice cream!_"

As they were led into the squad car in handcuffs, Mack pondered the full extent of Kevin's ignorance. What had been the breaking point?

Was it the windowless white van they drove to lower expectations?

Maybe it was the unique "exercise promotion" Kevin yelled over the loudspeaker: "If you want ice cream, kids, you have to, like, run up to us and get in the back!" (The fact that it contained an obviously er...used mattress did not help.)

Perhaps it was the new uniform, meticulously designed by Kevin. Gym shorts and a tank top were _sure_ to please the ladies.

In any case, the angry mob of mothers and fathers and legal guardians proved to be curtains for their valiant endeavor. Mack rested his head against the vinyl interior, Kevin being utterly enamored by the CB radio.  
_There's a plea bargain somewhere in this, I know,_ thought Mack. _I wonder if he'll still be calling me "Mack Daddy" after some time in the showers._ He sighed. Some dreams were made to be fulfilled.


	9. Bursting One's Bubbles

**Bursting One's Bubbles**

"Quinn," said Daria, "remember how you said that looking at me all day made you immune to all crimes against fashion?"

Quinn's ears perked up as the prompt resounded within her. Maybe it was a bit mean...but it was so her. "Why, yes. Yes I do."

"Okay, then. Let me test it, lest your heart be not with your mind."  
"Challenge accepted." With her assent, Daria turned on the television. As the flashing images of orange tuxedoes against blue backgrounds, green dresses in front of said tuxedoes, and the red and green ties worn by all fluttered within Quinn's conscious mind, her eyes rolled back into head and she fell backwards onto the floor. While still on the ground, her skin melted off and seeped down through the floorboards, followed by her muscles, inner tissues, and finally her bones, in a manner not unlike that of a non-Levite seeing the Ark of the Covenant. The experiment finished, Daria unceremoniously turned off the TV.

It was at this point that Jane burst into the room, all attempts at a normal conversation halted by the prominent pile of dust, still with earrings and a lone scrunchie.

"Sooo...is this anything that can be explained in one sentence?" she asked, shifting her gaze between her friend and whatever the hell that was at her feet.

"Even better," Daria replied, "a phrase: _The Lawrence Welk Show._"


	10. What's in a Name?

**What's in a Name?**

Upchuck took another look at the house number. _1111 Glen Oaks Lane._ It was right, but it couldn't be...this was _her_ house. The note he had received entailed a "surprise" of some sort. Unless...  
_Ah, the once-reserved Miss Morgendorffer is starting to embrace the rebel soul within. Oh, to be of assistance!_ The door opened, revealing Daria in the doorway. "So you've come," she observed. "And please don't say 'that's what she said'."  
"Will do, or rather, will don't."  
As they entered, she led them to a back room, adjoining her bedroom closet. He started to exude a cold sweat. He stopped himself from trembling and tried to retain his wit. "I see you want to keep things clean."  
She glared back at him. "In a way, yes."  
They found themselves in a steel blue room, devoid of all objects save for a blanket-covered table in the middle. "So?" he asked.  
"So, would you like to see John Wayne?"  
"John Wayne?" His mind returned to his childhood days. Images of liquid bravado and pop guns flashed in his head. A snap of her fingers brought him back into reality. "Do you?"  
"How? Where?"  
"Right here." She walked over to the table, and only then did he notice the humanoid mass lying atop it. He could only watch in awe as she whispered something in its ear and it stirred back to life.  
"John, meet Charles. Charles, meet John."  
His eyes lit up as he reached out to shake John's hand, his gesture returned by a hand around his throat, courtesy of his undead friend.  
"Oh, yeah," Daria remarked as it started slamming Upchuck into the wall, "did I mention his full name was John Wayne Gacy?"


	11. Too Many Programs?

**Too Many Programs?**

"Ms. Landon," demanded Ms. Li, "please tell Ms. Morgendorffer why promising an anarcho-communist student government is against school policy!"

"Well," Jodie started, "it is very clearly stated in the rules that administrative approval is needed for changing political systems, or the suggestion thereof. By bypassing this rule, you have broken the sense of trust-sense of trust-sense of trust..." As she echoed the bureaucratic refrain, she slumped over, somehow still standing even though both hands were on the floor. Daria looked Ms. Li in the eye with a simultaneous air of indignation and utter confusion.

"She isn't 'broken', is she?"

"What on earth are you talking about?" she replied. In a matter of seconds, she whipped out what looked like a soldering iron and applied it to Jodie's neck, mumbling something about "integrated circuits" in the process. As Ms. Li hit her square in the shoulder, she stood erect again. "You have broken the sense of trust between principal and student..."

Not a word was said (at least by the humans) as Daria backed away from the desk and out of the office.

Ms. Li simply smiled back, mentally bottling the expression on Daria's face. It was a sight she would come to cherish for years afterward.

Especially since the security camera was at just the right angle.


	12. A Very Guilty Pleasure

**A Very Guilty Pleasure**

Daria looked both ways before opening the freezer door. Not that she expected anyone to be watching, but one could never be sure. Even for someone who had built an entire persona from maintaining an apathy towards the perceptions of others, the sight of the food she held in her hand dictated that this could never rise above the security of a well-kept secret.

The feast was prepared after several minutes in the microwave. _Such a god-like machine,_ she mused. _Handle it right, and one receives their daily bread; one wrong turn and bam! Cancer._ It was set upon the finest china she had, to be consumed with implements of utmost quality. Before she could take the first bite, however, she found it obligatory to place the picture frame on the table. It was a far cry from its usual locale of the bedstead, but something about this meal was just...heartless without it.

She gazed into the image within. Tom's smiling face shone vibrantly from the center, although not without some help from the blood-stained glass. She always remembered that day: how he and Jane were at it like rabbits in the hotel room, oblivious to the broken shards that would bring about their downfall. And now they were like rabbits in death, gutted and skinned in her kitchen.

She looked down at Tom's thigh, and then at the meat that was once in it, and sighed as she picked up the fork. This was the one thing between her and the courts, and she was pretty sure that they would find her guilty pleasure a _very_ guilty pleasure, indeed. Criminally, in fact. She wiped the last of the grease from her cheek, a carnal stain of the last of the evidence.

And if she learned a single thing from the ordeal, it was that evidence tasted _great_ with ketchup.


	13. Finders Keepers

**Finders Keepers**

She sat paralyzed in the chair as he limbered toward her, knife in hand. A day ago in the chamber, she had already suffered the ignominy of being his dress-up doll. At least, that's what she hoped she was; it had been a haze-hell, _life_ was a haze for her-but there was no other possible reason for her to be wearing a white pinafore on blue. This had graduated from a crime against fashion to entrapment against fashion.

He looked at her vacantly pensive expression and grinned, his pearly whites reflected in the dull light of the blade. It was the time to strike, most definitely. He lunged toward her cheeks and carved out two circular pieces of skin, one for each. Symmetry was key to his art. The circles of flesh on her face, the way their scarlet color matched with her newly dyed hair, the black pigment in her irises...something about it just made his heart jump with each passing second it remained in his line of vision. One could even call it _excitement_.

He suavely took a bow to his Raggedy Ann doll in front of him, without shedding the devious smile to which the both had become accustomed. Just one more thing left to do. "Please, miss," he growled. "Call me _Ken_. I love it when you call me Ken." He gently pressed the knife to her neck, although with not enough force to make a slash. He didn't want to scrap her like his other failed creations. Oh, the price he had paid to get her. Or rather, to find her. Finders keepers, he hoped.

"Keeeen," she cooed back.

He released the weapon from his hand and let it drop harmlessly to the floor. As he knelt down, his lips pressed against her hand, he called again. "Call me Ken!"

"Keeeen." He shuddered as a chill traveled up his spine. She was a keeper, without a doubt.

Besides, that was what the shackle irons were for.


	14. Full of It

**Full of It**

Daria stepped behind Kevin and winced. What she was about to do was all-out sacrilege towards any football player, or at least one of his caliber. But the sight of Jane gradually pulling a twenty-dollar bill out of her wallet spurred her on. _One, two...three!_ She reached for his neck protector and grabbed at it. Strangely, it seemed to be tighter on there than she thought, but with a bit of elbow grease, it came off.

She started to walk back to celebrate her victory, but she stopped dead at the sound coming from behind her. _Hssssssssss_. It was at that moment that she noticed the large hole in the back of his neck, now releasing a steady gust of air. Meanwhile, his body shriveled, its wrinkled mass falling to the floor as the air inside cried its last. Jane walked over to take a glance at their now-deflated colleague.

"This explains a lot, doesn't it?" asked Jane, handing her friend a bill.

Daria looked down and sighed. "I always thought he was Brittany's blow-up doll. I never thought it was the truth."


	15. Two for One

**Two for One**

Daria looked at the link on which Jane was about to click. "Why did you bring me to your computer? And why is that webcam pointed at me?"

"Just watch," replied Jane.

As "Lover's Theme" wafted through the speakers, images of coprophagic decadence of the nth degree were transmitted into Daria's brain. The video finished, leaving her to crave bleach for both her brain and her digestive tract.

"What...the...hell...was...that?" she asked, her monotone violated by her surprise, along with the rest of her.

Jane simply pulled out a plastic cup from her pocket, shit-eating grin in tow. "A _tutorial_."


	16. Life Imitates Art

**Life Imitates Art**

Tommy Sherman descended into his cheerful chiding of Daria, as his appearance at the football game awaited. "You're one of those misery chicks, always moping about what a cruel world it is, making a big deal about it so people won't notice that you're a loser."

As he smiled, celebrating his rout, Daria stared back, her eyes seeming to pierce his chest in their brute concentration. "You know, Tommy boy, you're right. I _am_ one of those '_Misery_ chicks'." As she finished this statement, he screamed as he felt the force of the sledgehammer on his ankles and fell to the ground.

"Oh, my God!" Kevin shouted from across the hall. "Tommy Sherman's dead!"

"Not yet," Daria retorted as she retrieved the typewriter from her locker.


	17. All the Rage

**All the Rage**

Quinn launched herself from her bedstead to find herself in a boundless, empty land. The gray void stretched into the distance, becoming one with the textureless ground. She ambled on, shivering for the lack of temperature as she attempted to process, for the first time, the subtle emotion of fear, which had now reached the forefront.

Off in the distance, a black shadow stirred. As it grew closer and closer with soundless steps, her spine chilled more and more. She looked at the dark figure in shock. Something about its green jacket, black skirt, and auburn hair waxed familiar. _OK, it's Daria,_ she thought. _Annoying but useful._ Her eyes traveled up to her face, and a high scream sounded from the darkest depths of Quinn's throat.

"_Jesus Christ!_" she yelled, and with good reason. This Daria's face was a contorted, wrinkled mass, her mouth but an inch from her eyes. Her greeting bore the toll of a brazen bell, doomed to one note. "JOINED FACEBOOK. KING OF SOCKPUPPETS."

"Forever alone," she replied back. "That's what you are. In here, at least. Real life? Maybe. I think I'll just walk away now-"

She was interrupted as she stepped into another figure. It wore a business suit, and once again possessed a face only a demon mother could love, with bloodshot eyes, curled lips, and a right cheek full of warts. _Dad._ His reply was hoarse, a rasp in the air. "I PAY U TAXES. Y U NO LOWER?!"

She backed off again, now bumping into something else. Did that flabby, oblong, pouting face belong to Tiffany? The way it let out a slow "Okaaaaay" was her answer. The three of them started to close in on her, as she fell onto the ground, while their cries grew louder.

"I KILL U SQUIRRELS? Y U NO LEARN LESSON?"

"GETS NEW CELL PHONE. $200 ALARM CLOCK."

"Oooooookaaaaaaaaaaay."

Quinn awoke, her mother's arms grappling her out of unconsciousness.

"Wha-? Whe-? My God, I'm alive! I'm not in the land of memes anymore! Thank-" Her celebration was halted by the sound coming from Helen's mouth. A gaping, angry mouth with teeth baring, complimenting the soulless eyes and enraged eyebrows above.

"FFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU UUUUUUUUUU..."

There was a tremendous breaking of glass as the bedroom window shattered under Quinn's weight.

Now she was free.


	18. Ruined Moments

The vignettes in this chapter all hold the common theme of having some of the show's classic moments absolutely ruined. That doesn't mean they aren't enjoyable, however…

**Through a Headlight, Darkly**

"So, Daria," Quinn started, "how do you like your contacts?"

Daria was unexpectedly ecstatic for the occasion. "Wow. No more metal on the bridge of my nose. No more lack of peripheral vision. And it's all so clear! I feel...I feel so ali-"

Her words were cut off by the tractor trailer in the street. In a second's time, so was her circulation. Quinn watched as car after car unscrupulously rolled over her sister's body. At the first sight of rats, she hastily jotted down a note and casually pinned it onto Daria's (now very red) green jacket, then sprinted away as quickly as possible.

And that was how Daria Morgendorffer became the most famous "suicide" in all of Lawndale.

**Arts 'n'…Eh, Just Crass**

"Did they add another quart of grease to the pizza recipe?" Daria asked Jane as the both of them slumped over in the seats from high intake.

In the bathroom, the cook zipped up his pants and scooped up an olio of all things gastrointestinal and renal from the toilet in a quart-sized cup. "Yeah, 'grease'."

**Squashing Daria**

As her mind sank back into her argument-riddled past, Daria spied the large refrigerator box and exhaled deeply. She crawled into it, as if seeking peace amid the lifeless prism.

A moment later, Quinn looked through the kitchen window. _What is that doing there? I could have sworn I threw that out. Mom's gonna kill me if she sees it._ The sound of the garbage truck around the corner handed her a flash of inspiration. She acted upon it, dragging the surprisingly heavy box to the wide open maw of the truck's compactor, eying its imminent destruction in the sharp metal teeth grinding around it.

It was then that she learned the hard way the human body and corrugated cardboard had _very_ similar structures, when it came to layering.


	19. Eirinn go Blam

Happy Saint Patrick's Day! I mean no offense whatsoever for the title.

**Éirinn go Blam**

St. Patrick's Day's elfin form awoke to find himself resting on a cold vinyl car seat. The windows were tinted, and a black partition separated him from whomever was driving it. A song blasted from the stereo, and _loudly._ Strangely, the lyrics seemed to be in some kind of foreign language. _Crap magic powers,_ he thought as he squinted out the window to try and pick something out of the darkness. It bore some resemblance to a grassy countryside, but there was no telling where he was.

At least not until his driver spoke.

"Hi, how are you?" the driver asked in his soft, wiry voice. It was muffled under the aggressive din of voices and bagpipes. It sounded suspiciously Irish. Almost _too_ Irish.

"What?" replied Saint Pat's. "I really can't hear ya. What is this?"

"I was hoping you'd ask that." The music decreased in volume, until any conversation was finally rendered audible.

"So, anyway," Saint Pat's said, "let's start this anew. Top o' the mornin' to ya."

"Strike two," came the reply.

"Whaddya mean?"

"Here, let me hum that song again. _Óró, sé do bheatha 'bhaile, anois ar thearcht an tsamhreidh._"

He shrugged. "Still doesn't ring a bell."

"Of course not. That's because it's _actually Irish._"

"I'm Irish too! Look! I literally breathe green!" A green cloud wafted through the limo. Unfortunately, it ricocheted back from the partition, causing the leprechaun to violently choke up.

"I see, but 'top o' the mornin?' Seriously? Go back to _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn._"

Saint Patrick's Day's eyes grew wide with disbelief. "Yar full of a lot of shite, ya know that?"

"I'm not the mythical creature, though. _You_ are."

"But c'mon, at least I help spike business for the beer industry!"

"That doesn't help the 200,000 of us here who are diabetic." He pressed a button, and the windows rolled down. A wide expanse of green saluted him. They were definitely in the middle of Irish nowhere. The driver started again. "An honest question: are you familiar with the _darker_ side of Ireland?"

"Why do ya ask?"

The car stopped. The partition lowered to reveal the driver, who turned around to reveal a large badge on his coat. On it was a picture of a phoenix, with the inscription "OGLAIGH NA HEIREANN: UNDEFEATED ARMY."

"The IRA...?" The driver nodded. His auburn hair jogged St. Patrick's Day's memory. What town was that fellow from, Lawnday, Fawndale, Lawndale?

"By chance, ya wouldn't happen to be that palooka, O'Neill, would ya?"

O'Neill laughed. "Some things you just don't need to know." He exited the limo and spoke in. "Or won't." Then he sprinted off.

St. Pat's would have been able to decode his words had it not been for the explosion that rocketed through the vehicle.


	20. Gag Name Reflex

**Gag Name Reflex**

"Will the following people please come down to the principal's office?"

Daria groaned. Being trapped in a group of idiots was already unsatisfactory. Having her loathing interrupted by an even bigger one was just obscene. She would just have to sit in her seat and take it, with the added comfort that Jane was probably as tormented. Maybe it would serve as artistic inspiration. In any case, Ms. Li could be heard clearing her throat as she prepared to announce the names of the fresh blood.

"Benjamin Dover? Sorry, _Ben_ Dover."

Was this really happening? It was a common combination of names, so perhaps it was a coinci-

"Hugh Jass?"

-_dence. Okay, try not to laugh, keep calm, stop smiling like that, no one else is-_

"Drew P. Weiner?"

_If I could last one second-_

"Michael Hunt? Richard Hertz? Philip McCracken? Seymour Butts?"

The abject humiliation Daria suffered in front of her classmates (Jane included) as she fell out of her chair laughing was one thing. Nothing an adulthood of consuming hard liquor couldn't erase.

The sight of the seven young men at the door, however, all brandishing hall passes and glares, was definitely going to hurt in the morning.


	21. Full Frontal (Not in That Way)

**Full Frontal (Not in **_**That**_** Way)**

The door to the office swung open as the two shuffled in. From across the room, the receptionist shifted her gaze between them and the clipboard behind the window. "The Thompsons, right?"

"Yup," said Doug Thompson, now playfully half-embracing Kevin through his track suit. "I'm here for this little guy."

A smile approached her face as she nodded. "Well, the doctor isn't occupied right now. You can go in."

They entered the hallway to find one visible room, a cozy-looking office where a man was sitting, proudly bedecked in a snow-white lab coat. His eyes glimmered as they fell upon his visitors. "Please, do come in."

Two chairs awaited them inside. "So," the doctor started as they sat themselves down, "what brings you here today?"

"Well, you see," replied Doug, "me and Charlene have been trying to give Kevin here a start by getting him a squeeze. Thing is, though, most of them...aren't exactly his type. You think you got any for him?"

"Let me ask him what he wants." He turned to the barely pubescent kid in the adjacent chair. "Hair color?"

"What's the lightest you got?"

"I'm assuming you're not including albino."

"Why would I want a rhino?"

"Okay, blonde it is. Height?"

"Five foot six!"

"No, I mean her-never mind. Now, try not to laugh at the next one. Bust size?"

"Uh, um..."

"Make 'em so he can use 'em as a pillow," Doug butted in.

"All right, sir. Now, I would usually perform an IQ test, but given his answers..." Mr. Thompson started to scowl. "Uh, he's _so_ extraordinary that I know exactly what to do. Give me a moment." He rose up and retrieved what looked like a set of keys and two very thin ice picks. The door behind him came as a surprise to them both, but less so than the subtle shine of iron chains coming from the dark room within. A girl's voice could be heard inside.

"Yay, light! Can we eat now-wait, why are you putting that through my eye-" Both father and son cringed as the dialogue descended into bloodcurdling screams, punctuated by occasional cries of "Keep still!" Ten minutes later, he emerged, gently pushing a buxom blonde by her back as if to guide her. Her face was blank and her stare vacant. The doctor rectified what he could as he gingerly pushed up the sides of her mouth to form a simple smile.

"Okay, Kevin, say hello to Brittany."

As was made evident by the way he had to pull Kevin off his freshly-crafted lover and vice-versa, he did much more than say "hello."


	22. The Flighty Quinn

**The Flighty Quinn**

Zachary trudged back into the depths of Cashman's, Quinn's parting words fresh on his mind. She was a special girl, no doubt, greatly gifted in the area of high maintenance. However, a few gifts would placate the beast, or so he thought. But just where the hell was Junior 5? As far as he could see, he had just left the teeny-boppers. He was nearing the perfumes, their pungent stench starting to creep higher and higher into his nose, as if to tweeze his frontal lobes. And he was already starting to feel weak bloodlust, so he had to get out, and _fast_. As soon as he spied a blonde-haired clerk at the counter, though, he felt he could hold out, if only for a few minutes.

"Excuse me," he started, "I'm looking for Theresa."

"You're talking to her," she replied. "Change of shifts."

"Ah, well, I need something for Quinn."

"Before I help you with that, can you just sample this one perfume? It's a consumer base-wide survey we're doing."

_My father warned me about moments like this,_ Zachary thought. With a stifled sneer, he put his nose up to the glass bottle in her hand, and waited impatiently for the squeeze.

It didn't come. Only blackness. That was when he awoke, sitting in a room that looked like a steampunk's wet dream. The gears on the large machine-type-thingy (ever the dutiful, he made no attempts at assumption) in the corner looked impressively intricate. As did the straps binding his wrists and ankles to the chair. Now that he thought about it, the helmet attached to his head and, to his shock, the machine, was a teensy bit odd as well. It came together all of a sudden. _Hmm. The old chloroform trick. Why did I not see that coming?_ As he pondered the reason why, a familiar blonde walked into view.

"Theresa?" he said.

"Well, look who's got decent short-term memory."

"So, are you going to help me find something for Quinn now?" He wished the restraints would let him cover his mouth. It seemed so painfully obvious that she was not. He antsily shuffled in his seat. If he were going to be trapped in a strange room with someone who was now a strange woman, he was going to be _comfortable_, damn it.

"Actually, yes." She strutted over to a large switch on the wall. "Pure, unadulterated adoration, as a matter of fact."

"What do you mean by that?"

"It _means_ you're going to be Quinn's little love-slave, cutie."

A grin flashed across his face. "You think I'm cute?"

His reply came in the form of a gently arced smirk. "Maybe. But I just have to do what she tells me."

"Is there a reason you're rendering yourself as below her?"

"It's all a simple principle of supply and demand." She backed away from the switch and casually leaned up against the machine. "You see, us here at Cashman's value our customers dearly. We value our binge shoppers even more. Now I know that you know Quinn, seeing where you came from. Who else do you know who wears the same shirt every day?" He attempted in vain to shrug. "Actually, the question is this: who else do you know that has twenty copies of the same shirt?" From the silence that followed, she regretted making space for it. "It would be quite unjust to not repay her somehow, to give her what she wants." She peered at Zachary between squinted eyelids. "And she wants men. A lot of them. So many, she could bathe in their testosterone." She walked back over to the switch. "And so obedient, they wouldn't mind her invading their endocrine system to retrieve it. It'll be nice, don't worry. Three, two, one..."

The next thing he knew, he was in his bed. What day was it? Sunday seemed about right. He fumbled for the floor, and took a look at the clock. 12:00 P. M. The sunny sight outside his window seemed to confirm it.

Although that didn't explain why he had suddenly developed a craving for carrots.


End file.
